


Nobody Gets Me Like You Do

by BeautifulLife



Category: The Selection Series - Kiera Cass
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Soulmates, Wedding Fluff, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 15:20:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9241295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifulLife/pseuds/BeautifulLife
Summary: Three possible weddings for three of Princess Eadlyn’s likely choices in her Selection… each bridegroom believes of her that “nobody gets me like you do.” (Each wedding is from the bridegroom's point of view.) Inspired by the song "Nobody" from Nick Fradiani's album Hurricane.





	1. How'd It Go From Just One Night?

“Come on, Kile, spill. What’s the medal for?” Samn Crane, my roommate from Fennley Advanced Technical College, folded his arms across his freshly starched uniform and smirked at our reflections in the huge gilt-framed mirror.

“Best kisser.” I shifted in my polished boots, to the annoyance of Tonzhir, who hadn’t quite finished arranging every strand of my hair to his satisfaction. “Wait’ll you see the one Eady gives me tomorrow.”

During Princess-now-Queen Eadlyn’s whirlwind Selection, I’d more-or-less gotten used to being fussed over and fancied up. Honestly, shaves and manicures and pomades aren’t so bad when they’re delivered by a team of professionals who treat Making Kile Woodwork Presentable as a tactical challenge comparable to inserting a spy in New Asia. It’s having my mother after me to tuck in my shirt that gets old.

“Why do we have to dress like Guards, anyway?” Samn’s own medal, half the size of mine, was basically for being my official best friend. I’d considered offering him hazard pay for it, too.

“It’s my job to guard her heart.”

][^][^][^][

 _Tradition_ was the answer I’d really been given. Tradition also said my soon-to-be-wife shouldn’t be beckoning me from a cracked-open door that belonged to the green parlor. She _certainly_ shouldn’t be kissing me with her wedding dress on, though the way she had one hand tangled in my hair and the other pressed to the small of my back, I wasn’t likely to _see_ the dress.

Kissing Eady only became more enticing with practice. That first kiss she’d bargained for, back during her Selection, had been as much a surprise to me as to her. The Royal Pain in the Ass wasn’t supposed to make my pulse pound or my hands want to hold her so tight that I could feel her own heartbeat in rhythm with mine.

I moved my lips to her bare shoulder, her neck, her ear lobe. Eady tasted like caramel, salt, and roses, and there was a spot just under her ear that was _very_ ticklish.

Eady freed her hands and used them to give a little push against my chest. “Eloise took hours to get my hair like this.”

“Why are we here?”

“I wanted to make sure I was doing the right thing.” There was laughter in her voice, and her hazel eyes sparkled. She pushed back an artful curl while I wondered if Tonzhir would faint at the disarray that had been made of my head.

][^][^][^][

During the dull bits of services, I used to entertain myself by designing a modern cathedral. It would have soaring trusses of metal, set with glass so the sun traced the length of the aisle to the altar. The effect would be so much more awe-inspiring than frills and froufrou and fusty art from centuries ago.

As I followed the bishop from the robing room onto the stage—I mean, the sanctuary—frills and fust seemed plenty capable of knocking me over with awe. The painted vaults on either side of the central colonnade concentrated the murmur of conversation and the glitter of tiaras, until it seemed like every important person on the planet was packed in. My throat went dry and my palms went damp.

“What’s the medal for?” the bishop whispered.

“Climbing on the mountains and leaping on the hills.”

My mother, looking more like an older sister in a floaty gray dress, dabs at her eyes with a ribbon-trimmed handkerchief. Dad, the one dark spot in the front row, gives me a thumbs-up.

][^][^][^][

Once Lady Brice Mannor, Neena Hallensway, and my little sister Josie were lined up on the sanctuary steps—managing to look identical in lacy blue dresses despite being tiny and blonde, tall and dark, and a grinning bundle of _look this was all my idea,_ respectively—the bouncy Bach bubbled into silence.

Tall inlaid doors at the far end of the cathedral swung open as if pushed by the trumpets’ blare, revealing Queen Eadlyn of Illéa, flanked by her parents.

She shone like a star, from the jewels in her ceremonial crown to the gold and diamond swirls of her dress. Eady outshone King-now-Prince Maxon in his Guards uniform, his chest covered with medals he’d earned. Next to her, Princess America was a shadow in deep red embroidered in silver.

As Eady progressed up the center colonnade to the tum-dum-de-dum of the organ, her dazzling figure wasn’t lost in the fuss and fust: she focused it, made it coalesce around her, as if she were a shooting star, sweeping everything in her wake like the thirty-foot cascade of her veil.

Then she was looking up at me with wide hazel eyes. As I clasped her hand and led her to stand in front of the bishop, she felt like a stranger—not even the Royal Pain in the Ass, but a woman I’d somehow missed growing up with.

][^][^][^][

“Into this holy union, Eadlyn Helena Margarete and Kile Ludwig now come to be joined. If any of you can show just cause why they may not be lawfully joined together, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

My shoulders tensed against the sudden certainty that one of Eady’s rejected Selected would jump to his feet, waving a hand, and insist that Eady had promised to marry him.

When silence stretched and stretched instead, my fear dissolved into inappropriate giggles. I brought a hand up to cover my mouth, but Eady caught the virus anyway. Before I knew what had happened, we were forehead to forehead, choking on laughter, Eady’s giant cascade of calla lilies weighting down my shoulder as she leaned on me.

][^][^][^][

My turn came first. “I, Kile. . . Ludwig. . .” _don’t forget your middle name, Kile. . ._ “take you, Eadlyn Marga. . . Eadlyn Helena Margarete, to be my wife.” _I’m getting married. I’m marrying the Royal Brat._ My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my ears. “To have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until we are parted by death.”

With each phrase, I gave her hand a squeeze, as if that could steady me. “This is my solemn vow.”

Then it was her turn. Eady didn’t stumble over my middle name, much less her own. The only signs that she wasn’t delivering a declaration in her usual clear, carrying tones were the gentle squeezes of my hand and the way she never looked away from me.

][^][^][^][

We knelt for a blessing. This had to be hard on white Guard pants. Then I stayed kneeling while Eady stood. She and the bishop raised above my head a crown—simpler than the one she wore.

“Are you, Kile Shreave, willing to take this oath?” We’d agreed that I’d take Eady’s family name: _Woodwork_ just didn’t sound royal.

“I am.”

“Do you vow to uphold the laws and honor of Illéa all the days of your life, at home and abroad, with justice and mercy, in accordance with the will of our queen, Eadlyn?”

“I do.” My throat was dry again.

The crown was lowered onto my head, settling tight across the forehead. Then I was standing, exchanging with Eadlyn our most chaste kiss since she was four years old. The bishop turned us toward the crowd.

I had no idea so many eyes existed. _I’m married to Eady._ _I’m married. Really married._ The sparkling people were chanting words that slowly coalesced in my ears as _God save Queen Eadlyn and Prince Kile._

][^][^][^][

“What’s the medal for?” General Leger asked as we bumped elbows beside a tray of tiny pastries that glittered like jewels.

“Courage under the fire of Eady’s temper.”

He clapped my shoulder and went to retrieve Miss Lucy from where Prince Ahren was putting her through the paces of a country dance. In the past five hours, I’d stood for endless photos, shaken endless hands, eaten barely ten bites of dinner, fed Eady a slice of wedding cake with the right amount of playfulness to make her giggle but not so much that I smudged her make-up, then danced with Eady, Princess America, Mom, Princess Camille of France, my own sister Josie, Lady Brice Mannor, Eady’s lady-in-waiting Neena, and sixteen foreign dignitaries.

Josie was now deep in conversation with Prince Kaden, which probably meant I’d better check the nuptial bed for frogs, confetti, squeaking toys, and people hiding underneath. My school friend Samn was on his third dance with the elegant daughter of one of the women from Mom’s and Princess America’s Selection.

Prince Ahren, in the blue-and-buff uniform of France, offered me a glass of champagne. “What’s the medal for?”

“Combat wounds sustained on the dance floor.”

“I could have told you not to waltz with Princess Clothilde.”

“But you didn’t.” We leaned against the wall, screened by a potted palm, and watched Eady— _my wife_ —dance with one of her councilors.

“I’m glad Camille and I skipped all this fuss.”

“Eady suggested eloping only twice during the planning.”

“Third time, you would have accepted?” His raised eyebrow and half-smile gave him a sudden resemblance to Eady—to _my wife_ —that usually was lost in his paler coloring.

“Damn straight.” I folded my arms over my chest, then unfolded them. “What’s it like, being Prince-Consort?”

Ahren shrugged. “Lots of paperwork, lots of listening, lots of knowing what meetings to skip and when it’s better to lurk quietly in the background. So business as usual, but in French.”

“How much time do you get for your own. . . stuff?”

“I’m writing a thriller based on the life of Camille’s grandmother.” Ahren sipped his champagne. “I never had that much _stuff,_ though. I was trained to be someone’s royal husband. It was just a question of whose. I could be writing about Princess Angelica’s grandfather or Princess Clothilde’s step-great-uncle.”

“What did Princess Clothilde’s step-great-uncle do?”

“No idea.” My new brother-in-law shifted from foot to foot. “I’d hoped publicity from Eady’s Selection would launch your career. Not that it isn’t great to keep you as a member of the family, because it is. But don’t let this stop you from doing what you want to do. I mean it.”

 

 

 


	2. I Had to Have More than Just a Taste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, this could be Eadlyn's wedding...

Chef’s coat in heavy white satin is uniform. Shoulders pull back as Prince Gustav of Swendway is straightening blue sash, my chest across.

“ _Pysykää paikoillasi_ , _teidän korkeutenne,_ ” whispers new valet, my hair brushing hard. _Stay still, your highness._

Familiar words comfort. _Your highness_ is not familiar.

 _Your highness_ is not yet. Another few hours, Henri Jaakoppi is all I am being.

<><><><><> 

“ _Pysymme yhdessä,”_ says Prince Gustav when I stumble over thanking him in limo. _We stick together._

Even in native language, speaking with princes is new. Valet, his gift is. Man-in-waiting, his gift is. Tutor, his gift is. People cannot be given, literally, but to me they would not come without his finding. Winning heart of Queen Eadlyn, I need one helper only. Being husband of Queen Eadlyn, I need army.

Gratitude fills me. Tutor, valet, man, sunny day in Angeles, cheering crowds outside limo, beautiful bride—gifts overflow my heart. I only wish Eikko was here to be sharing.

<><><><><> 

Bishop pausing, halfway across sanctuary, hand raised. Prince looks to me. “ _Pysytkö mukana?”_

I answer before thinking if he means I follow his feet or his words.

<><><><><> 

Smile returns smile, almost always. I smile to parents in front row, each with translator, gift from Prince Gustav. I smile to Prince Ahren and Princess Camille of France, holding hands in other front row.

I smile to Queen—no, Princess America, dabbing eyes, her son beside. She smiles but still is crying. “ _Pysytte lujana,”_ I want to say. _Be strong._ Joy gives strength but also demands it.

In days since Queen Eadlyn proposed, my heart is swelling with joy, and my head sometimes is bursting. Names of royalty, easy. Major products of provinces of Illéa, not too hard. Stand for fittings, easy and boring. History of Illéa, not so easy, much excitement. Politics of Illéa, more difficult, with many words meaning almost same thing, but not quite.

Kissing Eadlyn, easy as easy, yet making knees tremble and head swim.

<><><><><> 

Music always I know: _Ode to Joy_ of Beethoven. Words are different but I hear more than I speak. Blue sky, green grass, all birds and creatures sing with joy to heaven.

Cathedral doors open and little at end of aisle is Josie Woodwork, sister of Sir Kile, in blue. Solemn she is, starting. Lady Brice, wearing red, follows, then Eadlyn’s lady-in-waiting Neena, yellow dress glowing, her dark skin against. Josie skips, a hip-hop from one foot to another. _Pysy tahdissa,_ I think to her. _Keep the beat._ Yet her joy I would not slow.

When all three ladies on steps like Swendway flag, music is silent. So long silent, I count in heartbeats.

Eadlyn comes.

White she wears, like maiden, hands overflowing with daisies of Swendway. Father-prince in uniform, I barely see until he is putting Eadlyn’s hand in mine, for my bride is lovely as dawn and creation rejoices with trumpets as her eyes meet mine through lace veil.

<><><><><> 

Rising and kneeling, I follow touches on my elbow from Prince Gustav. Too distracting to translate every word, we decided, Eadlyn and I and bishop’s secretary. I do not wish guests to lose joy in forest of unknown words. There are many words—more than in my village, but in my village, church has no gold, no paintings, no statues.

Bible I know in Finnish. In Finnish, I help choose words read. _Jos minä ihmisten ja enkelein kielillä puhuisin, ja ei minulla olisi rakkautta, niin minä olisin kuin helisevä vaski tai kilisevä kulkuinen._

_If I with tongues of men or angels speak, but I do not have love, so I would become like sounding brass or clanging cymbal._

<><><><><> 

The words I must say, Eadlyn’s hand resting with trust in mine, I have in memory and in practice.

“I, Henri Noel, take you, Eadlyn Helena Margarete, to be my wife. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you all the days of my life.”

Veil-behind, her eyes are bright like stars.

_“I, Eadlyn Helena Margarete, vie Henri Noel on mieheni. Lupaan olla totta sinulle hyvinä aikoina ja huonoina, ja sairauden terveys. Minä rakastan sinua ja kunnioittaa te kaikki elämäni päivinä.”_

Grammar limps like mine in English, vowels are hard not liquid, but I hear voice of angel.

<><><><><> 

“ _Pysyä polvillaan,”_ Eadlyn my wife whispers as she rises from where we kneel together.

Bishop speaks. “Are you, Henri Jaakoppi de Schreave, willing to take this oath?”

“Am.”

“Do you vow to uphold the laws and honor of Illéa, at home and abroad, with justice and mercy, in accordance with the will of our queen and the people?”

What I know of Illéa is so little. Principal products of Midston are natural gas, goats, and cotton. Best maple syrup comes from Hudson. Legal age of adulthood is sixteen. Gregory Illéa funded revolution against Chinese occupation. Good King Maxon abolished castes and gave all education. Queen Eadlyn’s birthday is April sixteenth. Million facts crowd my brain, ten million still to learn.

First time I am driven through streets of Angeles, people threw fruit at Eadlyn and us. Later is better. I see palm trees and sycamores, shiny towers and pink houses. In market, so much fruit, so many people at work. I smile at them and they smile back.

“Promise to raise laws, I do not know them.” My words come out wrong, yet they are right. “All I promise, I have in my heart, to love Illéa’s people as I love their queen.”

Eadlyn takes crown from bishop’s hands and sets it on my head.

<><><><><> 

Crown sits heavy by end of photos. Cheeks ache from smiling, yet every time I look at Eadlyn, I smile.

In limo, she rests head on my shoulder. “We’re married, Henri.”

Torrent of words follows. I know one in three, but I feel in hands and heart what Eadlyn means. “ _Aion pysyä ikuisesti,_ ” I say. _I will stay with you forever._


	3. Who Would Have Thought You Could Break Through?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The third possible wedding for Eadlyn...

It’s just like Mom to hug me before Jarvis helps me into my suit jacket, so she won’t rumple it.

Dad watches with his hands in his pockets. “Your mother and I are proud of you, Eikko,” he says in Finnish.

“Not as proud as I am of you.”

My parents had been blindsided by my sudden ascent from Henri’s translator to future prince-consort of Illéa.

Mom initially handled it best: before her new maids had her things unpacked at the palace, she was sitting at the piano in the Women’s Room, having a passionate discussion of music with Eadlyn’s mother, conducted mostly in gestures and arpeggios. When Eadlyn’s grandmother Singer arrived, Mom made a new best friend, though even I couldn’t understand their mix of Finnish, English, Spanish— _how did Mom even know Spanish?_ —and something that might have been Yiddish.

Dad’s meeting with Eadlyn’s father reportedly contained more silences than words, but his ice broke when Princess Gunilla of Swendway arrived with the foreign entourages. Gunilla de Monpezat turns out to be the professor behind a theory absolutely opposite to Dad’s views on WWIII, so she swept Dad up in a vast sequined embrace and hauled him into the nearest library.

Which brings us here, to my bedroom in the palace, where Jarvis is straightening the sharpest, most carefully tailored suit I’ve ever owned. There was talk of putting me in a uniform, because other princes of Illéa got married in uniforms, but I won’t wear a uniform I haven’t earned.

If Kile says one more time he’s a lover, not a fighter, I might make an exception to my rule of not punching people, though. It was funny the first twenty-seven times.

Once my jacket is arranged to Jarvis’ satisfaction, Mom opens a small wooden box and fastens to my lapel the enameled pin that she finds inside.

“Why a dandelion? It won’t match your princess’ bouquet.”

“It’s what I gave her after the Report where she announced her mother’s heart attack and the final six Elite.” _Some see a weed. Some see a flower. Perspective._

“ _Omenalörtsy_ ,” Dad says. He looks at Mom with a smile that lights both of them.

ooooooo

The crowds on either side of the street, as we ride to the cathedral in open cars, throw flowers—but not tomatoes or eggs, the way they did when Eadlyn tried that float ride to show off the Selection candidates.

Jarvis put clear polish on my nails so I don’t bite them any more.

My wave feels stiff. Mom takes to waving and smiling naturally. Dad has to be nudged to not stare straight ahead, until he sees the historic district. Then he has to be nudged not to point at the important buildings and definitely not to stand up in the car for a better view.

ooooooo

_Narthex_ is a word I had to learn from Dad. It’s the lobby of a church—and in this cathedral, it’s bigger than our entire church back in Kent.

Studying Illéa’s history with Henri, I learned a lot more detail than I got in school, including how it could work that clergy are Ones, without their being a threat to the royal family. In Swendway, pastors marry and have kids—but in Illéa, the clergy are celibate, they change their names, and they take vows of poverty. They’re survivors of religious groups that helped Gregory Illéa overthrow the Chinese occupation government. So they became Ones, but they had no way to pass on their caste as individuals, and any wealth went to the church.

Coming from Swendway after dismantling of the caste system had started, we were allowed to have our little church with our own ways. At our meeting with the assistant bishop to plan Eadlyn’s wedding, I was asked if I’d raise our children in the state religion, which of course I would.

Nothing in a book could have prepared me for the blur of color and babble of voices in the narthex now. I know all of these people. . .

Well, I’ve met all of these people. A royal wedding calls for a lot of attendants, including Prince Osten as the head of the pages whose job would be keeping Eadlyn’s thirty-foot veil from dragging on the floor.

Tall, blond Prince Ahren, I talked with during the Selection, mostly about which books to use with Henri. He’ll be walking with Princess Camille of France, his bride of less than a year. Prince Kaden, a three-quarter-scale version of his older brother, is always underfoot somewhere. He’ll escort Josie Woodwork. Kile Woodwork—

“He’s a lover, not a fighter,” Kile says, shaking my hand. I mock-punch him in the upper arm.

“You’re taking in Lady Brice, right?” He doesn’t need my reminder, but details give my mind something solid to grip.

“Nope. Princess Caterina of Italy.” He has the tiniest bit of a smirk, like there’s a story here I should remember. “Lady Brice is with Prince Gustav of Swendway.” Kile waves a hand toward an even taller, blonder man with a blue sash across his suit.

King-now-Prince Maxon chooses that moment to approach, holding a similar blue sash stretched between his hands. “Duck your head just a little so I don’t muss your hair.”

I do. It’s Ean, the most relaxed and smiling I’ve seen him, who adjusts the sash at my hip. “How do you like Hale’s design for your suit?”

“It’s great.” I swing my arms to prove it, halfway surprised at how far they move in a suit that fits so sleekly. “It’s all great.”

For a second, I feel tears welling behind my eyes. The cathedral and the royal attendants and the kindness of the rejected Elite and the former king about to be my father-in-law are all so much bigger than I am.

_I know Eikko as well as he knows Eadlyn. And I can tell you, you are enough as well._

My right hand reaches up to touch the enameled dandelion boutonniere. Eadlyn chose me. Even if everything here is bigger than me, there is a spot where I fit.

The cluster of men around me is breached by a ricocheting Josie Woodwork, waving a bouquet of lilies of the valley and white roses. “It’s almost time. Erik, we’ve got to get you all lined up and marching before Eadlyn comes out, ’cause it’s bad luck for you to see her in her dress.”

“How is she?” The words sound stupid as I say them.

“Throwing up. But it’s the most ladylike vomiting I’ve ever seen.”

My stomach and heart want to change places. Eadlyn is throwing up at the thought of marrying me—

Josie grins. “She’s thrilled at marrying you. It’s all just. . . hitting her right now. Don’t worry.”

“Right.” I look up at Prince Maxon. “Did Queen. . . Princess. . . Lady America throw up before your wedding.”

“No.” His half-smile makes him look, for a second, just like Eadlyn when she’s not sure if something’s funny or not. “But I did. And there was never any doubt in my mind that I wanted to marry her.”

ooooooo

On the long walk down the aisle, I will have my parents on either side of me. Waiting for my turn is the hardest part.

First goes the bishop, brilliant in white and gold, surrounded by his acolytes. The five pairs of attendants line up with the women’s dresses from darkest to lightest: starting with brilliant cobalt blue on Neena, who is escorted by Ean, and ending with sky blue on Lady Brice, who looks tiny beside Prince Gustav.

Halfway down that tremendous aisle, the wedding party looks like tiny enameled figures gliding through a jewel box. The fluting organ music—one of those marches that’s alternately exultant and somber—makes me feel like this is a play or a dream. Any minute now, the curtain will drop or I’ll wake up, and I’ll be alone in the dark, clutching a fading memory like a pillow.

It’s my turn. Mom squeezes my arm. Dad stares straight ahead and hums. And we’re off.

Waiting is not the hardest part. My heart wants to pound a different beat than the music, and my feet feel like lead. The number of faces it’s possible to pack into a cathedral. . . it has to be more than the population of my hometown. And they’re all looking at me.

Thousands must have seen my appearances on the Capital Report, but I couldn’t see them.

“One foot in front of the other,” Dad mutters in my left ear.

“Imagine them all naked,” Mom whispers in my right ear—but not so softly that Dad doesn’t hear it.

“Not in church, Essi.”

“Why not? God made our bodies.” Fortunately, this is in Finnish.

“ _Silloin heidän silmänsä avautuivat, ja he huomasivat olevansa alasti. He sitoivat yhteen viikunanlehtiä ja kietoivat ne vyötärölleen_.”

“If the forbidden fruit made Adam and Eve ashamed to be naked, then shouldn’t a holy place make it okay?”

“Do I want to know what you were thinking at our wedding?”

“There was only one person I was imagining naked, Jussi.”

I can feel myself blushing. “Too much information, Mom.”

“What, you thought I didn’t find your father sexy?”

The two lines of attendants on the steps of the sanctuary feel like goal posts to some game. I’m half-considering sprinting for it—why can’t my parents flirt in a language I don’t speak?—when suddenly we’re there. Mom kisses me on the cheek. Dad shakes my hand, then offers Mom his arm to escort her to her seat. I turn—

In that breath, there are trumpets, trailed by a choir of heavenly unseen voices. The doors to the narthex open again, and there’s Eadlyn, flanked by her mother and father.

I don’t think I’m ever going to breathe again. Eadlyn in her coronation dress was magnificent. Eadlyn in her wedding gown is. . . like a rose opening in the morning light. Hale will probably happily tell me, later, how her skirt makes her seem to float and why the fabric has the sheen and translucence of petals and how Eadlyn can look simultaneously so immaculate and so vulnerable.

My hand reaches out to her before she’s more than three-quarters of the way down the aisle, and I don’t care if it looks wrong—she’s gazing right at me, with a smile so exultant it seems to want to leap off her mouth and tackle me.

Her father places her hand in mine. Princess America leans up to kiss my cheek. “Take good care of each other,” she says softly.

Heart pounding, I lead my bride to stand before the bishop.

ooooooo

“Eikko Petteri and Eadlyn Helena Margarete, have you come here to enter into marriage without coercion, freely and wholeheartedly?”

“Yes,” I say, a beat behind Eadlyn. The ripple of applause throughout the cathedral makes me jump. People remember that Capital Report where she chose love over the Selection.

 _But it would have been equally true if she’d married Henri or Kile,_ I want to say. _She almost chose to sacrifice her heart for her country, and it was her free choice either way._

The bishop joins our hands. My throat dries up like the Angeles River in summer.

The expression in Eadlyn’s eyes would make me fly or faint or burst into flames.

One deep breath, then.

“I, Eikko Petteri, take you, Eadlyn Helena Margarete, for my lawful wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.” The rhythm of the words carries me forward when my tongue would stumble.

Then it’s Eadlyn’s turn. “I, Eadlyn Helena Margarete, take you, Eikko Petteri, for my lawful husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.”

With each phrase, I feel the earth shift. It’s as if we’re surrounded by all the people who’ve said these vows before us—my parents, her parents, the people in the cathedral, all our ancestors, everyone who built and fought and died for Illéa—all united by our promises.

The ring I slip on Eadlyn’s finger is a new royal signet, the mate of the one she gave me, modified with a border of dandelions. The ring she puts on my left hand is a copy of my great-great-grandmother’s ring, with the basketweave bright and clear, done in strands of copper and rose gold.

We kneel for a blessing, still holding hands. I have to let go of Eadlyn when she stands, and I close my eyes because, while I know what comes next, it feels like I can push it into the future if I don’t see it coming.

“Are you, Eikko Petteri Koskinen, prepared to take this oath?”

The correct answer is _yes_. I’m surprised by how calm I sound.

“Do you vow to uphold the laws and honor of Illéa all the days of your life, at home and abroad, with justice and mercy, in accordance with the will of our queen, Eadlyn?”

“I do.” I straighten my back as the prince-consort’s crown settles onto my head.

Kile Woodwork helps me to my feet. “Lover, not a fighter,” he whispers, and it’s almost funny again because Eadlyn is raising her face for our first kiss as husband and wife. I intended to make it a peck—we’re in public, we’re in a cathedral, our parents are watching—but somehow it doesn’t turn out that way and by the time I breath, people are applauding.

I’m embarrassed to look at them, but everybody’s steering me to turn and look down the length of the cathedral—Eadlyn’s hand on my arm, Kile’s on my other arm, the bishop’s on my shoulder blade—and the crowd is on their feet, chanting “God save Queen Eadlyn and Prince Eikko.”

The tear on my cheek is because they pronounce _Eikko_ more-or-less right.

ooooooo

“I feel like I’ve barely gotten to look at you,” I say as I lead Eadlyn to the dance floor.

Eadlyn laughs and spins, her dress foaming around her. “You just married me. And what were you looking at while we did all those photos?”

“The camera, mostly.”

“You stared at me through three of the five courses of dinner.”

“There were five courses?”

 _Right hand on her shoulder blade. Left arm out, clasp her hand. Look over her right shoulder. One-two-three, one-two-three._ “I can’t even look at you right now.”

“Try it.” Her tone is teasing, but she’s also grown up dancing like this.

“I’d go off-balance and step all over your feet.” I breathe in deeply enough to catch the subtle scents of her: white wine, lilies, roses, and something herbal. “What do I smell like to you?”

I feel her laugh as much as hear it over the violins. “Starch from your shirt. Soap. I don’t know. You. You smell like you. You smell like Eikko.” She lets me steer her into a spin. “Oh, and like cinnamon. I think there’s a spot on your lip.”

That kiss should throw me off-balance, but somehow it fits with the motion of the song. Henri, so gracious in defeat that I wanted to hug him and cry and laugh every time I talk with him, made our wedding cake: a tower of _korvapuusti_ , wrapped in a web of icing that swirled into lace and pearls and flowers.

“I knew in my head that our wedding would be about more than us. It’s just. . . hitting me right now.”

Eadlyn tips her head so she can look at my face without breaking our rhythm. “Do you know the big thing I had to learn about being royal?”

“Probably not. You’re a few years ahead of me in lessons.”

“It’s a good thing when _about more than just us_ is because people want to be part of it with us.”

We had _fisksoppa_ for the soup course, too, golden with saffron, redolent with leeks, laden with salmon and cod. Nobody had to do that for me.

The sharp suit, the cake, the rings—so much of everything here could be explained by making me presentable or giving me what was believed due to even the most unlikely of princes. But nobody made Hale want to design our clothes. Nobody made Henri want to bake us his best and most beloved dessert. Nobody made whoever chose and cooked that _fisksoppa_ think of making me feel a little more at home.

Eadlyn lifts her hand from my shoulder and touches my dandelion boutonniere.

“No matter how much bigger it all is than me, there’s a place where I fit,” I whisper in her right ear.

ooooooo

Many, many dances and toasts and hugs later, after we’ve left the ballroom in a flurry of flower petals, Jarvis peels me out of my suit, gives me another shave, and wraps me in a robe as soft as summer air.

Eadlyn is waiting for me in her chamber. Her hair is brushed out, falling like a dark river over a nightgown with enough lace and ribbons to pass as a bridal gown back in Kent.

We stare at each other, blushing and not sure what comes next. I mean, I know the mechanics and I want to kiss her until both our knees turn weak, but how exactly to start that with a wife. . . I’m not sure.

She hops up from her chair and turns on a music player.

It’s the same waltz as our first dance.

Eadlyn holds out her right hand, and I put my right hand under her shoulder blade, and this time when we dance, I gaze into her hazel eyes and don’t miss a single step.


End file.
